


A Brooklyn Christmas Eve

by lezgoisay



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Brooklyn, Bucky's Not in Cryo in Wakandia, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Epiphanies, Ficlet, M/M, Non-compliant CA:CW, Past Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Belief, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:23:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezgoisay/pseuds/lezgoisay
Summary: Sometimes a trip down memory lane isn't a good idea. Unless you take a friend along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is now also available in Russian [here,](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5040597) translated by [RecklessMind.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessMind/pseuds/RecklessMind)

The last time Steve and Bucky attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve was 1941, right after the attack on Pearl Harbor and the USA's entry into World War II.

So, yes, it's been awhile.

They've both been kind of busy since then, of course. Or frozen. Either way, their church attendance has seriously declined. Steve still considers himself a Christian but his Catholicism is basically on hiatus. His trust in all major institutions -- church, state, S.H.I.E.L.D., the United Nations -- has taken a real beating over the last few years. Bucky, of course, is even more long gone. He no longer has any kind of belief in anything, much less in divine beings or their alleged mercy and justice. That was all tortured out of him decades ago.

So why, suddenly this year, does Steve feel a pull, a yearning, to attend midnight mass again? Is it some sort of weird nostalgia? Well, he IS getting older -- 98 now and counting. Don't old people always start wanting to reminisce about the good old days? Next thing he'll be chasing kids off his lawn.

"I just want to go, that's all," he tells Bucky. "You don't have to come."

But there Bucky is anyway, sitting on Steve's left in a pew at the back of the Brooklyn church they had attended as kids. Bucky refuses to sit closer to the front, desiring a quick exit if it should prove strategically necessary. He checks out all the sightlines and assesses all potential threats before sitting down. Steve knows that Bucky has three knives strapped to various parts of his body, plus a Glock within easy reach under his winter jacket. Not that he needs any of those weapons, of course. Paranoia and anxiety are simply part of who Bucky is now. Besides, he could kill everyone here just using his cybernetic arm alone.

So Steve doesn't nag Bucky about bringing unnecessary weaponry to a place of worship. He does, however, elbow him sharply in the ribs and glare pointedly at the knit cap still on Bucky's head. Standards are standards. Bucky reaches up and pulls it off.

The church is beautifully decorated for Christmas. Silver stars suspended on wires dangle from the vaulted ceiling. A huge tree, dripping with white lights and glass ornaments, dominates the corner off to one side of the altar. Poinsettias line the dais and crowd around the pulpit. All is bright and joyful.

It surprises Steve how little the church has actually changed. In many ways, it looks remarkably similar to the bygone days of their youth. The stations of the cross hang in the same places they had always hung. There's still a bank of flickering votive candles surrounding the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The stonework font in which he and Bucky had both been baptized is still in its usual spot. The heavy scent of incense smoke billowing from the censer is unchanged from his childhood too, except now it doesn't aggravate his lungs the way it used to. Steve closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

The ritualized movements of Catholicism are all part of Steve's automatic muscle memory as well. Genuflect, sit down, stand up, kneel, make the sign of the cross. Steve performs them all flawlessly at the appropriate times in the service. Bucky sits and does not move. His face is Winter Soldier blank and forbidding. Hard to believe he'd once been an altar boy here.

Steve smiles at that memory. As in most things, Bucky had achieved with ease what Steve could not. Steve's chronic bouts of illness made his attendance at church too unreliable to qualify him as good altar boy material. Besides, Steve always seemed to have a black eye or a fat lip from getting beaten up in some back alley. That kind of face didn't look angelic enough at the front of the church.

And hadn't Bucky been in the choir too? Yes, that's right, before his voice broke and dropped to a tenor. In an Irish congregation, though, the choir already had more tenors than it could possibly use, so that was the end of Bucky's singing days. Steve always sang off-key, so no one ever had choir ambitions for him.

The greatest changes Steve notices in the church are to the mass itself. It's in English now, not Latin. Easier to understand, sure, but has it lost a certain charm and mystery as a result? Steve is pleased to see, though, that these days both girls and boys assist the priest at the altar. The priest is still a man though.

Steve's mind drifts during the homily. He can't help but think of his mother, Sarah. All those years she had accompanied him to this church to make sure he was brought up in the faith of his people. Her funeral had been in this church too. How could that have been 80 years ago now? It just seems like yesterday. What Steve wouldn't give to see her again, to talk to her once more, to feel her hand on his cheek as he pours out his heart like when he was a little boy.

How he had loved her!

Because of his Ma, Steve had dared to fight back, always fight back, against pain and illness and bullies and injustice wherever found. His Ma had never given up when faced with the many hardships of her own life. How could he do anything less?

Thinking of his Ma's funeral makes Steve remember that the last time he had been in a church was for Peggy's memorial service. Brave, tough, resourceful Peggy, equally handy with a machine gun or a right hook. And so beautiful in addition to everything else. Being a pallbearer and helping to carry her flag-draped coffin on his shoulder had been almost too much for him to bear emotionally.

How he had loved her!

Because of Peggy, Steve had dared to dream of a future after the war with marriage, a home and children. Yet, like so much in his life, those hopes had been thwarted. Tragically thwarted.

Steve shakes his head. He's got to stop this downward emotional spiral of bittersweet memories and regrets. He forces himself to think instead of how he used to enjoy mass when he was a kid, surreptitiously sketching Bucky in his altar boy finery. Bucky was so handsome and just the best pal any guy could ever have. And when they got older, they became more, much more, than pals. Lovers -- Steve's first and still his only. Even when Steve had nothing, he had Bucky.

How he had loved him!

Because of Bucky, Steve had dared to defy the judgements of church, state and society that their love made them mortal sinners destined for the fires of hell, criminals destined for prison and mental cases destined for the psych ward.

In reality, what his Bucky had ended up suffering at the hands of Hydra was worse than all of those fates put together. Brainwashed, tortured, controlled, turned into a robotic killer, all humanity stripped from him. Frozen when not needed, thawed when he was. How many countless people had the Winter Soldier killed over the decades as he waded through that endless river of blood and pain?

And it's not like Steve's own hands are clean. Killing in a righteous cause is still killing. Steve is just as skilled and accomplished a murderer as Bucky, if the truth be told.

Oh, it was not a good idea to have come here tonight. Steve feels himself slipping into a full-fledged anxiety attack as he becomes overwhelmed with negativity, guilt and regret. How has his life and Bucky's life turned out this way? What happened to those pure-hearted kids who had come to church here so many years ago? How can he go on in this seemingly endless life of struggle? Panic starts to set in.

Steve feels the sudden warmth of Bucky holding his hand. Bucky is still stone-faced, staring straight ahead. But thanks to his serum-enhanced peripheral vision, he has witnessed Steve's face twist into grief and despair. Bucky gives Steve's hand a little squeeze. "Let's go," he says. "Now."

Before Steve knows it, Bucky has him up and out of there, briskly walking him home through the dark wintry streets, still holding hands. The fresh air and exercise help calm Steve somewhat. He manages to get himself under control again.

Suddenly, Steve stops in his tracks as he realizes why Bucky attended church with him tonight.

"You had my back like always, Buck. Thank you."

"That's my job."

And all at once, Steve's perspective changes. He's been looking at things completely wrong, focusing on loss and regret instead of on the abundance of love and support that he has received throughout his stormy life of conflict. Love and support from his Ma, from Peggy and especially from Bucky. Abiding love from this wonderful, damaged man who, against all possible odds, gained his freedom and returned to him from the depths of suffering.

In the gently falling snow, Steve pulls Bucky into his arms and gives him a lengthy, passionate kiss.

"How I love you," Steve says.

Bucky smiles for the first time that night and they kiss again.


End file.
